


Endymion’s Curse

by ThestralsNest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 07:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12338106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThestralsNest/pseuds/ThestralsNest
Summary: Draco Malfoy accidentally sends his son into an endless slumber. Albus tries to help to the best of his ability. Rose just sighs and sort of shakes her head at them both.





	Endymion’s Curse

_‘Endymionis somnum dormire’ is the last thing Scorpius hears his father say before darkness consumes him. He’s in oblivion now. In the place where dreams and thoughts blend together and fever dreams unfold. A side-effect of the protection charm, surely. He’s not conscious, not quite, but he’s not asleep either and he wonders how long it’s going to last. How long it’s already lasted. He’s afraid he’s lost track of time completely along with space._

_Strange nonsensical visions are unspooling before him and they’re the only things he can...not exactly control, but steer somewhat. Grasp, at least._

_He wonders if he can pinch himself awake. If he’s going to wake up soon. If he’s still alive at all._

_He wonders if he’s going to meet his mum again._

*

During the two weeks he’s waited for him, Albus has fooled himself into believing that seeing Scorpius in the flesh would provide some kind of comfort.

It doesn’t.

The sight of Scorpius’ recumbent body, his ashen skin, his drooping arms, they do nothing to alleviate his worry. On the contrary. To call the feeling that sinks into his bones worry is an insult to the concept. It’s more than worry. It’s alarm. Red and hot and burning. Making him powerless and agitated all at once.

Ms. Abbott is watching him march to the cot with all the melancholy of the world in her eyes, as if she knows what it feels like to see a dear friend bedridden and immobile. She might. Albus doesn’t know. Doesn’t really care to know right now.

_Endymion’s Curse_ it’s called. Or so he heard. Or so Scorpius’ father’s written in his letter. An old enchantment meant to protect but that does so by putting the person it is cast upon to an endless sleep.

(Sleep. Albus has to remind himself as he presses his thumb to Scorpius’ wrist and feels the slow pulse. Sleep. Not death.)

“His father is looking for the counter-curse.” Ms. Abbot smiles warmly at him. “And spell my fingers clean off if he doesn’t turn every stone in Europe to find it.”

Despite her lilt, she doesn’t sound like she holds much faith in her words. Albus prefers to frown at Scorpius and brush a lock of thin blond hair out of his eyes instead of pretending he believes anything anyone says anymore.

*

Scorpius’ chest lifts and caves with each of his tiny breath. The movement is barely noticeable. It’s so light in fact that anyone walking by would think Albus is mourning.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Slughorn paid them a visit earlier. Albus vehemently refused to attend his classes. There’s no point, with the state of things, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway. Convincing Slughorn was no challenge for him either, the old teacher has continuously lauded him ever since he first set foot in the castle, for no reason other than he is the first Slytherin Potter in generations.

Albus takes a sip of the warm honeyed milk Ms. Abbott has brought him. He ate the cookies first, stuffing himself with them as an ersatz breakfast. He wonders if Scorpius is hungry or if the curse keeps him magically fed.

He watches Scorpius’ closed eyes, trails his gaze down to the soft curve of his cheeks, his delicate jawline, his ajar lips. He listens to his quiet breathing. Scorpius looks like he’s having sweet dreams and the reassurance it provides is paltry, but Albus hangs on to every last bit of it. 

“Al.”

Albus jumps, holding in a surprised squeak, and turns to the gap in the curtains. “Lily?”

His sister is stepping inside the little makeshift room, crossing the pace from the curtains to the bed and Albus’ eyes fall unto the square envelop she’s holding. When he looks back up, Lily’s gaze is on Scorpius. Her uneasiness is palpable in the way she snaps her stare away immediately.

“This is for you.” She says with a shrug of the shoulder. “Some owl brought it this morning.”

Albus frowns and takes the envelope when Lily offers it. _Mr. Albus Severus Potter, Hospital Wing, Hogwarts Castle_ the address reads.

“Who’s it from?” He asks, turning the envelope over. He touches the broken wax seal. “You read it?”

Lily shrugs dismissively. “When an owl drops a letter in your cereal, you tend to open it. It’s from Malfoy’s father.” She’s trying not to look at Scorpius. She’s fluttering her eyelashes and pointedly keeping her stare on Albus. “A-Anyway, I’ve got–uh, studying to do. Rose sends her best.”

“Thanks.” Albus says. It should be the end of the conversation, but Lily sticks around. “Is there anything else?”

She bites her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, Al.” She glances at Scorpius and gulps. “Really.”

That’s not what he wants to hear. Her reaction is exactly what he was afraid of. He’s not bereaved. Scorpius isn’t dead. He doesn’t need her condolences. He’d tell her so if he was in a better mood, but he really doesn’t want to extend the conversation, so he reassures her that he’s fine and she leaves without another word.

She’s out of the curtains in a blink, she should be out of mind and Albus should be able to heave a sigh of relief, but alas he hears her again.

“Merlin, Mathilda, he looks dead.” She probably thinks there’s a soundproofing charm placed on the hangings. There isn’t.

“That’s awful, Lil.” Another voice responds. Whoever Mathilda is. One of Lily’s many friends probably. “How’s your brother taking it?”

Their footsteps grow distant as they walk away. Lily sounds very far when she answers: “Terribly.” 

Albus _doesn’t_ want to think about it.

*

His only jaunt is to the library, halfway through his second day of vigil.

The letter from Draco mentioned a book. Of course, Albus has already read it before (it’s one of the three books in the library that mentions Endymion’s curse) but it’s a comfort to have it next to him. It feels like he’s helping with research in some way. Besides, reading it again confirms what he desperately needs reminding; Scorpius is only asleep.

The curse is rare and difficult to perform. It’s also not exactly a curse because it’s not cast out of a desire to harm. It’s not meant to punish, but done out of the purest form of love. A fictitious kind of love that the author of the book insists doesn’t exist. A love that is so unique, so genuine, so _desperate_ , it should be too dangerous to be real.

Draco Malfoy doesn’t care for educated guesses, apparently.

Albus would scoff if it weren’t so heartbreakingly sad.

Evidently, Draco isn’t the only one who was reckless with love. The book has another instance of the curse working. Endymion. The very person from which the curse draws its name. A wizard so fair his lover wanted to keep him ageless and hers forever, condemning him to a state of deathless beauty.

The fact that the curse preserves health and meliorates the looks of its victim is cold comfort. Albus reckons he should’ve realised that over two weeks without eating would look very differently on anyone fully alive. Scorpius’ cheeks aren’t hollow and his skin, aside from being quite pale, looks healthy. Healthier than usual, he’d venture to say, without any of the stress usually creasing his forehead, folding his mouth into frowns and making his hands shake.

As for the second part of the deal, Albus wonders if the loveliness practically seeping from Scorpius’ every pore is new or he’s just failed to pay attention before.

(Albus prefers him astir but he can’t deny that the way Scorpius’ skin shines like white gold is stunning and he’s never noticed how lush his lips are until now.) (Or well, he’s never admitted to noticing.)

Endymion died an unheroic death, his lover killing him in a spout of madness and jealousy. The spell can’t protect against a dagger to the heart apparently.

It reminds Albus of those Greek tragedies. The ones in which blokes marry their mothers and aunts eat their nephews whole and gods fly down from heaven to enslave beautiful shepherds. The stories of mortals who became the stars they study in Professor Sinistra’s class.

The book doesn’t say anything about a counter-curse. It barely acknowledges that Endymion’s Curse is genuine. Albus has never been creative with magic, but he figures he ought to be this time around. So he thinks about it. Edymion’s Curse. Where else has he heard about sleeping curses? Myths. Fairy-tales. His father’s book of Muggle fairy-tales. Damned princesses. Wanness of skin. Magic-induced sleep. Fairies. Wishes. Apples. Spindles. Briar.

Briar.

Scorpius is limp and sleep-soft and it dawns on Albus, making him flush red.

There’s the bitter aftertaste of a resolve on his tongue as he stands up.

_He has to find Rose._

*

“You want me to what?” Rose is livid, her fists are balled. She looks like she might deck him right in the nose. Albus takes a step back. He doesn’t want to tumble down the Divination stairwell. It’s quite high and he’ll be of no use to Scorpius with a concussion.

“I talked with your mum. She said it might work.”

A lie. Rose knows so, obviously, but if it gives her the justification she needs to do what Albus is asking, then he’ll gladly connive with her. 

“I hardly think so.” She balks. “My mother knows fiction from reality.”

Albus sighs at her frustrating intransigence. Why Scorpius had to pick his difficult cousin as the recipient of his unrequited love has always been lost on him. _You can’t talk about it like your mum’s pickled eel soup, Albus, I don’t like her because it’s good for me_ , Scorpius has told him a thousand times. He’s right, Albus groans internally, it’s not good for him.

“Rose, please.” Albus grabs the sleeve of her robe when she looks like she’s about to slip past him. “It won’t cost a knut to try.”

She rolls her eyes. “My dignity is worth a whole lot more than a knut.”

Rose is so dramatic, it prickles Albus to spleen. “You’ve lost that a long time ago with me.”

Maybe he shouldn’t sneer at someone who can turn him into a candle snuffer and toss him out of the window, but he’s run out of options and it seems like obstinacy can only be returned in kind.

“ _There’s no vice in self-sacrifice._ ” He says, hoping he’s quoting the correct part of the year’s Sorting Hat song.

“I’m not in Hufflepuff.” _Damn it_. “And honestly, Albus, rhymes don’t make any statement truer. Besides, if you’re going to use my house against me, may I remind you that Slytherins are supposed to be the resourceful ones.” 

“This is me being resourceful.” Albus counters, earning an unimpressed stare back. “Rose, don’t start this now.” He says desperately.

“You’re starting it.” Rose huffs.

“I’m asking you. His life is at stake. Don’t you care about him at all?”

“I don’t actually.” She says very proudly.

“ _Fine_. Don’t you care about _me_ then? Our family bond? We used to be close. Does that mean nothing to you now?”

Rose sighs heavily at his words. Albus can almost see the irritation leave her as more appropriate compassion takes its place. Her eyes soften and her lips form a thin line.

Albus squares his shoulders as she considers him thoroughly.

“All right.” Rose says eventually, folding her arms. “My mum did always say Gryffindors should come to the aid of the afflicted. But you’ll owe me.”

*

Albus watches from where he stands at the foot of the bed as Rose pulls her hair back with her hand and holds the bulk of it. He watches as she scrunches her eyes closed and holds herself up with her arm on one side of Scorpius’ pillow. Watches as she lowers her mouth. Watches as she kisses Scorpius stiffly.

Albus is torn. Utterly. There’s no denying that he wants it to work. He wants Scorpius to be laughing and talking and playing chess with him again. But if Rose does wake him up with her kiss. If the Muggles have it right and _true love’s kiss_ really is as powerful as all the fairy-tales suggest. If Rose really is Scorpius’ True Love. If Rose sees that Scorpius is actually perfect for her. If—

“Can I go now?”

Albus doesn’t realise he looked away until he swerves back to see Rose straightening her back with hidden sadness in the crease of her cheek. Next to her, Scorpius hasn’t moved an inch. Still sleeping supine and pale and beautiful and immobile.

“You didn’t do it right.”

Rose eyes him like she’s never met someone so exhausting. Albus feels exhausted too.

“You do it then.” She hisses at him.

He could. He looks down at Scorpius. Contemplates. “It wouldn’t work.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Rose responds mercilessly and Albus flicks a glare at her. “Because this isn’t a fairy-tale, Albus. Malfoy isn’t filling for the role of a twisted Snow White. And love isn’t a remedy any more than it’s a curse.”

Albus pulls a face at her. “You think you’re so bloody smart.”

“I told you it wouldn’t work. You’re the one who begged me to try.” She wipes her mouth hammily with the cuff of her sleeve and the overly ceremonious gesture makes Albus see red.

“He’s not a toad.” Albus all but growls at her. “He’s not going to give you warts.”

“I don’t want to take any chances.” She moves to the side, glaring daggers at him. “Who knows who else you’ve blarneyed into kissing him.”

“You know very well it’s only you he wants.” Albus grits his teeth. He can’t tell if the feeling boiling inside his stomach is just aggravation or if it comes from a deeper, much darker place within himself.

“To your greatest chagrin, I’m sure.” Rose sneers back.

Albus doesn’t think he’s ever felt so hot from anger before. It’s bubbling inside him, blackening thoughts that were already so grey, making him feel like he’s going to explode from sheer ire. There’s no way to wrest Rose’s words to fit the narrative he’s projected for himself and he hates it when she’s right. Hates it to his core. Hates it to his very soul.

“If you’re not going to help, you can sod off now.” He snarls because it’s easier to do than admitting that he’s slowly breaking under the hard shell he’s put up since the start of all this and scalding tears are making his vision swim.

“Right.” Rose clicks her tongue. “You know, if you had the decency to show me a little more respect, I would help you. Being so churlish and obtuse never fared well for anyone.”

“Good night Rose.” He plops down on his chair and crosses his arms.

*

Anger is still steaming inside him when Slughorn comes to shoo him back to his Common Room. He obliges, knowing perfectly well that Slughorn is going to drag him back (or make a prefect drag him back) if he doesn’t follow willingly.

So he squeezes Scorpius’ arm in a silent promise and leaves the Hospital Wing. He needs to take a shower and think a few things over before he can face Scorpius (sleeping or not) again. He feels a little crazy. A little unhinged. And he’s trying very hard not to think about what Rose has told him lest it makes him act upon intrusive thoughts he’s trying very hard to bat away.

But it turns out there’s nothing in Hogwarts’ water that can wash away madness and he lurks back to the infirmary under the invisibility cloak James bequeathed him at his graduation, feeling just as loopy.

Ms. Abbott has left an ever-burning candle lit on Scorpius’ bedside table. There’s a scone and a tall glass of water too. Albus feels his heart melt at the quiet kindness the matron’s showed them both.

Appraising the quality of medical care at Hogwarts is not what he’s come here for though and he looks back at the gap between the curtains to make sure no one has seen him come in.

Scorpius is beautiful in the candlelight. The dim lighting accentuates all the right features and makes his hair look soft. Albus cards through it with his hand to verify. It’s as soft as it looks. His gaze shoots down. Scorpius’ lips look like they’re coated with gloss they’re so plush. So welcoming. He feels enthralled to touch them. So he does. With a brush of his thumb, he trails along Scorpius’ lower lip and bites his own lip nervously.

He looks back at the entrance again and sees only darkness.

He’s trembling when he starts to lower his head. He wishes he could say he’s never pictured kissing Scorpius before, he wishes he could say he has no expectation...But he’s thought about it. Oh, he has. Entire summer months spent fantasizing about scenarios that were so much easier to fabricate when Scorpius was in Wiltshire and months away. Fantasies he knew to quell before school started. It’s all crashing on him now. None of his estival delusions were enough to prepare him for the moment he’d actually be leaning close (and closer, and closer, and closer) to Scorpius’ lips.

Albus shuts his eyes. It’s only proper. He’s never seen anyone kiss with their eyes open.

It doesn’t prevent the jolt that shakes him when their lips finally touch.

His heart is in his throat and he tries to relax as he molds his mouth to Scorpius’. He moves gingerly; half afraid Scorpius won’t wake up, half afraid he will. Then, in a beat, something settles inside him, resolution maybe, and he waits. And waits. And waits. And he feels the surge of disappointment when Scorpius still isn’t stirring awake.

Albus whines quietly and draws back. Nothing has changed except that Albus is quickly overheating.

He lays a palm on Scorpius’ chest and shakes him.

Nothing.

It was a long shot.

He looks at the gap between the curtains again to see that no one is watching him.

A sigh. Albus is too tired to fight the impulse and he presses another kiss against the corner of Scorpius’ mouth before he sits back heavily. Perhaps what he’s done is a little deranged. (Very deranged, he reckons) and very outmoded (and has anyone _ever_ believed in True Love’s Kiss?), but it’s close to midnight and Scorpius has been asleep for nearly three weeks and Albus wants to indulge in fairy-tales for just a moment longer. So he stares at Scorpius lying still and cold in front of him and hums soft ballads until sleep blurries his thoughts and eases his mind.

*

Albus wakes up with a start. His neck hurts. His back hurts. His head is cushioned onto his arms. His whole body feels pins and needles. Something cracks when he stretches.

It smells of clean sheets and fresh mint and definitely not like the sixth-year dormitory.

In a flurry of memories, Albus scrambles to look up at Scorpius. He’s still very much asleep. His lips are a muted pink. Albus sighs. _It really was a long shot_.

A noise makes Albus tear his eyes away and they fall on Ms. Abbott right as she’s pushing the curtains aside with her hand. She carries a bouquet of white flowers and looks positively unamused.

“Good morning, Mr. Potter.” She says, walking to the other side of the bed. “I must say you should consider a career with the Witchwatchers. Those sneaking skills of yours ought to be honed and put to use.”

“Sorry.” Albus says, looking down.

Ms. Abbott sighs. A small smile draws her lips. “Why we thought you would’ve done anything else is beyond me.”

Albus watches her as she lays the bouquet of white flowers on the bedside table.

“I don’t usually allow flowers, however...” She stops and fishes a piece of parchment out of the pocket of her apron. “These ones are inoffensive and came with a curious note.”

She stretches her arm above Scorpius’ chest. Albus takes the parchment. “What is it?”

She shrugs. “I thought it was from Draco but it’s unlikely. No adult I know writes so neatly, with such nice curls.”

Ms. Abbott sits on the edge of the bed and checks Scorpius’ pulse. Albus flushes red when she brushes back the dishevelled locks of hair that fell unto Scorpius’ forehead during the night.

“Where is Mr. Malfoy?” Albus says, unfolding the note.

“According to his letter this morning, Draco went to Riga. He says he’s found someone who might be able to help.” She stands, brushing off her apron. Albus frowns at her when she smiles at him reassuringly. “I know you’re worried Mr. Potter.” She’s careful when she approaches. “It’s terrible to see someone you loved so much in this condition. It’s terrible and your determination to stay by his side is commendable...but I’m afraid it might only bring you torment.” Her eyebrows curl in a sad expression that make her look older and more seasoned.

“He’s not dead.” Albus is too offended at the implication to care for her sad brow. “He’s going to wake up.”

“Optimism is a fool’s inspiration.” She speaks in a sorrowful singsong. “If you’re hungry, please eat the scone I’ve left on the table. The house-elves would be very upset if they found I waste the food of special requests.”

She pats his shoulder and turns to leave.

“Ms. Abbott.” He calls as she reaches the edge of the curtains.

“Yes?”

“Please don’t speak about Scorpius in the past.”

She pauses for a moment before she leaves.

*

Albus is pretty sure Slughorn will forever hold against him the time he bursts into his office demanding moonstone powder and mead. That doesn’t stop him from slamming open the doors rather dramatically once he’s given clearance to enter the professor’s quarters.

“What on earth are you making, Mr. Potter?” Slughorn asks as Albus pulls open every single drawer of Slughorn’s portable apothecary box set on a castaway table.

“A potion, sir. Do you have a knife? A letter opener might do the trick so long as it’s sharp enough to draw blood.” He blathers out, pulling sprigs of wolfsbane out of a bag to lay them next to a small flask of moonstone powder.

“Blood?!”

“It’s okay, Professor, it’s for my own blood.” Albus ignores the way Slughorn pales, and looks around the room. A cabinet full of dusty bottles of fine wine and liquors is hanging on a wall in a far corner. He walks to it with Slughorn in tow. “Do you have any mead? Of Greek origin would be preferable. Ah!” He blows the dust off the label of a tall fluted bottle containing light yellow liquid. _Tantalus’s Honey-Nectar_. “This should do.”

“Mr. Potter!” He fails to grab Albus’ arm as he whirls by.

“Thank you, Professor.” Albus gathers the ingredients he’s left on the table near the apothecary box and shoves them into his bookbag messily. “We most definitely owe you for all you have done for us. I’ll be sure to tell my father and all his highbrow friends about your precious help and remarkable altruism.”

For a blink, Slughorn looks like he’s going to chase after Albus, but when Albus glances over his shoulder, Slughorn is already sitting down on the fluffy cushions of his sofa, a glass of wine in hand and a heavy sigh on his lips.

Albus smirks as he clutches his bookbag. Easy-peasy. He stops by the Great Hall to snatch a low-floating candle and then he’s off to the potions’ classroom.

He notices that his hands are shaking when he throws his bag onto the nearest worktable, but decides to pretend he’s completely confident. He plants the candle on the desk and lights it with the tip of his wand. The cauldron he borrows from an old pile at the back is heavier than the one he keeps in his trunk in his dormitory. It probably belongs to a different generation.

Once he’s hauled over the cauldron and collected his thoughts a bit, he lays all the ingredients on the countertop and sighs. He slams the recipe down and deposits the petals he collected from the white bouquet. He reviews the note.

_**Elysian Kiss.** 1 glass of mead. 1 spoonful of moonstone powder. 5 sprigs of wolfsbane. Stir 20 times clockwise, then twice anticlockwise. Add 4 drops of blood of a faithful admirer (that’s you), the last drop of wax of a burnt out candle, and 3 petals of white asphodel. If done right, the potion will produce steam that is to be administrated by inhalation._

_P.S. I hope you didn’t get any warts._

*

Albus is sort of miffed when McGonagall yanks him out of the Hospital Wing with the bouquet of white flowers while Scorpius’ father yells at him to ‘take those bloody funeral flowers and get out of here’.

He’s miffed but he doesn’t insist, because in the chaos that followed Draco Malfoy’s appearance in the infirmary, Albus was able to switch the bottles of Elysian Kiss before he was escorted out. He has one of them in his pocket now and it feels cold against his fingers. The brew he made was lukewarm. Whoever’s blood is in the bottle he’s switched out is considerably less powerful than Albus’.

*

After Scorpius wakes up, he spends a long while at home talking things out with his father. The only explanation Albus is given is that Scorpius has to recover from the curse and apparently has someone to thank for his awakening. Someone who’s given blood to the cause. Whoever it is, Albus is certain that they don’t love Scorpius quite the way he does. If the warmth of the Elysian Kiss he’s brewed has anything to show for it.

Albus contemplates not saying anything. If he does, Draco could very well alert his son to Albus’ feelings and Albus doesn’t reckon a love confession should be done via someone’s dad. On the other hand, if he keeps it quiet, Scorpius might be swindled by a false admirer. The thought alone is enough to convince Albus that que sera, sera. From his experience, Draco has never proved himself to be particularly untrustworthy.

Albus sends a stilted letter revealing his switching of the bottles. No response or awkward visit comes out of it and Scorpius comes back to school a few days later, seemingly unaware of the ordeal. Albus breathes a sigh of relief and makes a mental note to thank Scorpius’ dad next time he sees him.

There’s nothing he’s wanted more than having Scorpius awake and happy again.

(Though from the sound of it, Scorpius had particularly good dreams during his cursed slumber. Dreams of his late mum, his dad, their trip to Northern Europe when he was twelve, Albus, the Hogwarts Express, sweets...They are told with such sweetness and nostalgia that Albus almost feels bad that he woke him at all, even when Scorpius assures all the wonderful whimsies pales in comparison to the real thing.)

They fall back into their old routine again easily. Albus has a harder time catching up with the part of the curriculum he’s missed than Scorpius does.

Not to mention, Albus finds it hard to concentrate when you’re in love. Because, yes, Albus has decided to admit it to himself. He’s in love. And Scorpius has never needed a prettifying spell to be distractingly beautiful.

“So Ms. Wigworthy gave me extra lessons for the next month. To make up for my absence.” Scorpius says, crossing something off on his schedule and writing over it. “It’s not so bad, private lessons. I don’t have to raise my hand to ask questions. How’s divination?”

“Yeah. I need to drop by Hagrid’s Hut in the morning to borrow a chicken for alectryomancy.” Albus says with profound disinterest as he dog-ears one of the pages of his book, the one showing a pure white chicken pecking at seeds. “I’ve flown on the bristles of my broom for long enough, I know how to handle.”

“You shouldn’t hand in botched work!” Scorpius scolds, shoving Albus with his hand. “Won’t you ever learn?”

Albus would love to rebuke and say that he’s been winging most of his exams and essays for years without major consequences but the couch is narrow, Scorpius suddenly has his foot pressed up against his leg and it’s hard to focus on anything other than the red-hot contact.

Silence falls. Albus makes a point to keep his eyes on his book, thumbing the corner of the page he’s marked nervously. It’s not like he’s going to bring _it_ up now. It’d be awful timing on his part. He’d much prefer being out of the castle, at Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, drinking Butterbeer in a cozy pub. They’d talk and laugh and he’d gently remove foam on Scorpius’ nose to make him blush and then he’d build up the courage to tell Scorpius he fancies him and how wonderful it would be if the feelings were reciprocated and, oh, no he doesn’t need an answer right now but he definitely would like one soon and _please let us stay friends even if you don’t like me the same way, please_ —

“Albus.” Scorpius calls. Albus turns slowly. Scorpius is putting his schedule along with the book he’s been using as support for writing on a nearby table.

“What is it?”

“I, er…I spoke with Rose.” Scorpius says seriously. “She told me you made her—uhm, try and wake me.” 

Albus’ eyes widen, but of course he should have known. He’s told Rose to keep quiet about it, but all of his cousins are untrustworthy snitches so he shouldn’t be surprised. They would sell him out for a Chocolate Frog without so much of an afterthought.

(Rose always says it’s all about fairness. Albus maintains it’s just smug meddlesome-ness.)

He manages a small laugh.

“Bet you wish you were awake for it eh?” He jokes. Scorpius doesn’t laugh, just looks at the green fire blazing in the fireplace in front of them.

“Albus, you...” Scorpius hesitates. He’s playing with his hands in a nervous way and the lines on his forehead crease worriedly. He takes a bolstering breath. “You tried it as well, didn’t you?”

Albus blinks and shakes his head, then he nods, then shakes his head again. “Did she tell you that?” He deadpans. “What a bloody squealer that girl is! I can’t believe she would go around telling people that I—when she didn’t even—Merlin! Her sodding mouth is going to get her killed one day and watch me become prime suspect because, damn, they’d probably be right! Who finks on their _cousin_? On their _family_ like that?” He continues to chew his cousin out. Meanwhile Scorpius looks like he wants to say something, but he’s not saying it and Albus feels himself flaring up even more.

He stops eventually. (Has to, he’s going out of breath).

“Rose didn’t tell me anything actually.” Scorpius whispers in the quiet, a moment after Albus’ tantrum has somewhat passed. 

“She didn’t?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “I figured it out for myself because...” He scratches his neck and, huh, reddens from his hairline down past the collar of his shirt. “Well, because no doubt I would’ve tried too if it’d been you.”

Albus freezes. 

“I wouldn’t have hesitated.” Scorpius adds quietly.

“Oh.” Albus says. He feels Scorpius’ toes curl against his leg. “ _Oh_.”

He’s afraid to enquire what Scorpius means exactly. It could be a completely friendly remark; an _I care about you and would also go great lengths to save you from a mythical curse_ kind of observation. But it could also mean _I wish I hadn’t been asleep for it_. Albus honestly likes both options but he can’t stop himself from wondering if Scorpius would stop him if he tried to kiss him now.

(Not that he is going to try. Not with the giant portrait of Slughorn looming above the chimney, watching them eerily.)

“Maybe we should—uhm, discuss this over a Butterbeer next weekend.” Albus says, surprised at his own poise when his heart is beating like a sledgehammer in his chest. “What do you think?”

Scorpius looks at him and, well, Albus was right about one thing at least; maybe the curse gave him preternatural beauty, but no amount of magic can ever top the level of pure loveliness exuding from Scorpius when he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written after watching a French quiz show in which they asked a question about the Greek myth of Endymion. I vaguely remembered learning about it at university but I had to look a few things up (one of these things was John Keat’s poem _Endymion_. Very drawn-out and dramatic and befitting of a Greek tragedy.) 
> 
>  
> 
> _Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die;_  
>  _Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by_  
>  _In tranced dulness; speak, and let that spell_  
>  _Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell_  
>  _Its heavy pressure, and will press at least_  
>  _My lips to thine, that they may richly feast_  
>  _Until we taste the life of love again._  
>  _  
>  _\- Edymion Book II, John Keats__  
>   
> 


End file.
